Ilam was buried at dawn the next day, right next to his late wife. The spot chosen was right on the cliff-side, looking out over the wood, facing directly toward the desert in the distance. His daughters, April and Rose, held each other in constant grief, eyes moist and shoulders shaking. From beside him he felt Ring stir, greyish-green set blank. Exchanging a brief grunt, Slate gently placed a hand upon her back while they carried the fallen ape's body out into the clear. Rocket supported the middle, steely as ever, Stone in the lead and Coal in the back. The bonobo's body had been nestled in bows of cedar and dressed in chalky warpaint with a single smear of blue across his eyes. Slate's hands still ached from digging the shallow grave, the cold mud still present beneath his fingernails like a haunting ghost.

An inch further and it could have been Rocket, a hair-length further upon the gorilla's chest and his heart would have surely been clipped. It could have happened to anybody else, to Tyler, to Pigeon, to Cornelius even - if Pine had have stuck around longer. Slate bit back a shudder at the thought of laying his prince to rest, still as stone and never to move again. The crowd shifted, eyes slowly following the passing coffin of branches, the ache of regret and sorrow palpable in the air. Once he was lowered beneath the surface of the earth, the apes slowly began to lay their own offerings and gifts around the body. First kin, then siblings and friends. The final offering was from Rocket himself, spear in hand. Ilam was to be laid to rest like a proper warrior. Slate only could dream of a ceremony such as this.

The stormy-grey chimp paused in front of his dear friend's grave and his shoulders slumped slightly, looking upon the weapon between his fists in thought. It would be the last time he studied its grooves and the engravings the chimp and he had designed himself. Tinker, dressed formally in her shaman attire, offered a hand upon the small of his back, which evidently gave him enough strength to give the mighty weapon over. Rocket sucked in a quick breath and knelt, allowing it to nestle at his side, among the fruit and flowers and autumn leaves lining the nest. The ritual was nearly over, to be finished by Maurice's kind words before allowing the tribe to surround Ilam's final resting place and lay bows of pine across his exposed frame. Finally, as the sun cracked over the misty canopy, Slate watched as the colony slowly withdrew; bits and pieces at first, but then eventually in groups.

There was not a moment to lose.

Slate stuck behind, stoically taking his place beside Cornelius and Rocket, pushing the dirt and clay back over their fallen friend. It wasn't until he glanced up across the lip of the hole that he spotted his sister, standing beside Lake, waiting quietly for his return. The task at hand took perhaps a half an hour, yet they still waited, they still hung back. Eventually he was finished and knuckled over to join them by the skinny birch trunks. Leaves crunched beneath his dirty paws, their rich scent flooding his nostrils and reminding him that winter would soon be present. Would it snow? Perhaps. The chinobo came to sit next to Lake, who looked over at the dispersing party and the mound of churned earth with a hollow sort of look.

'Are you okay?' he signed apprehensively. Ever since the discovery of them being part of the same family, the pair had been uncomfortable and awkward.

Her head, however, turned in his direction and she offered an almost pitifully sad smile. It just about twisted his guts senseless. 'As best as I can be,' she replied, the bones framing her face gently swaying. At one time he had been bashful, finding her to be the most attractive female in the colony. She had such fire, and he liked that. However, Slate had found that in Krissa and it had opened his eyes to a whole new world of possibilities. Still, Blue Eyes had been right to choose her as a wife. 'I knew Ilam. He was kind. Taught me about ducks.'

'He taught me what berries were poison,' Slate reminisced. 'Mushrooms too.'

The following silence was a toothache, an eyesore, something horribly painful that none of them could shake. Slate chuffed and gestured a farewell, leaving the two females to finish their last minute visit. The chinobo took to the trees, sinewy arms carrying him in flight across the canopy. He had a long way to go, did he not? Slate took the short cut down toward the water-side, following the river's path all the way down to the pebbly shores. He stopped halfway to catch his breath and warm himself in the sun, listening to the trees rattle in the breeze as he hunched over, settled upon his haunches and trying to protect his most exposed features from the wind. A raven croaked greedily, most likely having found a juicy piece of carrion to feast on. The idea of food caused Slate's belly to rumble, eager for a meal, but he understood that he had priorities.

After perhaps forty minutes, the outcross continued on his way, ambling from tree to tree. Although he did not wish to revisit the spot, Slate paused over-top of Krissa's camp. It had been long-since abandoned, moss having grown heavier on the little underground den's slate roof. The log was still visible, although a bit deflated from months of decay. He could practically feel how spongy it would be beneath his feet, simply by looking at it. Half-tempted to lower himself down, he eyed the little home with his flaming gaze, yet continued on nonetheless. It would be mid-afternoon by time he made it to the shoreline. He continued along the river's winding path until he finally reached the final border of trees. Slate meandered along from there, searching the water's edge for any possible sign of human activity.

He came up with nothing, much to his defeat. Snout twitching, he grunted in his throat in frustration and kicked over a few stones. This was not as easy as he had thought it would be. He returned to the safety of the woods, tossing his body through shafts of light as he gracefully propelled himself through the spruce and pine. Their rich aroma was sharp within his nostrils, strong enough to bowl him over, but it kept him alert and acute to his surroundings, much like the scent of mint did for a newborn. He had always disliked the plant as a yearling. The simian's deltoid and trapezius muscles stretched and rippled, powerful and strong from years of experience in the trees. He had always been exemplary when it came to climbing and jumping. It was a blessing to be so sturdily-built.

As his journey contoured along the edge of the lake, his probing eyes would occasionally catch sight of a lantern or two across the way, the minuscule specks that travelled along the outskirts of the human's little facility alerting him to the possibility of discovery. He was correct in assuming so: as Slate drew closer to the lapping waves, leaning out upon a particularly long overhanging limb whilst balancing himself with one arm, he spotted the shape of fuzzy heads bobbing about. A long boardwalk came into view and he stopped, frozen until stock-still as he caught the sound of human conversation.

One voice said, "How many loads are we supposed to find?"

"I d'nno, Christ, maybe a dozen? Jonas is crackin' down on our asses now that winter is coming," responded another, unpleased by his friend's curiosity. The chinobo raised his head, sniffing gently at the air. "I'm startin' to get concerned, to be quite honest."

"About what?"

"The traps in the lake. They're pullin' up less n' less fish with each passin' week."

"Hibernation, you think?"

"You think fish hibernate?" the second voice laughed.

Hurt, the first voice audibly shrugged. "Well, don't all animals?"

"No, especially not th' apes." Someone kicked a few stones. The two men came into view, one shorter and stubbier, the other brawny with chestnut brown hair on his head. Slate tilted his head. "Speakin' of which, run into any lately?"

"Haven't even heard one," responded the stout man. "Beginning to think that they all fucked off somewhere warmer. They're smarter than we are, you know."

The two hoisted up their load into a boat tied tightly to one of the dock's posts. Water sloshed around their knee-high boots, the material of their pants growing damp in places where they submerged too deep. "I bet that new girl'd agree," the other remarked, smirking. "Doesn't she speak monkey?"

"Yeah, came in talking with her hands n' shit. Nic sure knows how to pick 'em. You'd think she's into that witchy-hoodoo stuff too, with all those weird drawings and necklaces she wears."

"She was drenched in mud when he brought her in, it's no wonder she's off her nut." Slate felt a zing shoot up his spine, the breath stilling in his throat. He couldn't fight the faint curling of his lips as he reflected upon the theory that Krissa had made it. She was alive! "Still, she's a good fisher. Just acts real weird. Makes me think she was brainwashed or some shit into thinkin' she was one of 'em."

"Maybe she was!" the stout man cracked, earning a laugh between the two.

Of course she had been. She always had been, and yet somehow their jeering and mocking caused anger to well deep within his guts. Slate squared his shoulders and huffed, stepping back into the thickest greenery he could while nestled along the trees. The two began to climb into their little ship, the tarp - similar to the one Krissa had used to keep her shelter dry- pulled taut over the crates and bags beneath. The motor began to start up, and thus he waited a bit longer while the two shouted at one another over the noise. They surely wouldn't hear him. Creeping down the bark with silent leathery mitts, Slate quickly crept along the rocky bank and approached the back of the boat. While the two men had their heads turned, he hoisted himself up inside, being sure to keep his bow and quiver handy in case he needed to make a quick kill.

Without another moment to lose, he disappeared under the tarp. There was a minute of silence as the outcross cringed, knowing fully well that he had disturbed the weight and caused it to rock unpredictably. "You feel that?" one of the men muttered under his breath. It was a pudgy one, a faint tremble of fret tainting his tenor vocals.

"Pro'lly just a fish knockin' on the side of the boat. You worry too much!"

The vessel began to move and Slate held on, beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable with both the close conditions beneath the tarp and the rocking of the boat itself. His lips parted, allowing a few nervous huffs to pass through his glinting teeth before eh swallowed the noise just begging to escape his throat. He had to focus. If he blew his cover, who knew what they would do. Maybe they had guns, and judging by the messy situation that had taken place only a day before, he knew that his arrows were no match for flying lead and terror.

His ride to the other side of the lake was smooth from there on out, yet Slate still couldn't shake the uneasy feeling in his guts. It wasn't until the boat's engine began to die down that he understood they were close to land. He backed himself up into a corner, suddenly realising that they would surely check on their cargo before heading onto land. Slate's heart began to hammer in his chest. Where was a way out? Where? His head careened back and he peered through a crack in the tarp, noticing nothing but blue sky. He took this as a chance and fled, breaking into the open. He was met by curious and horrified faces. The little village was a clutter of cottages along the waterfront, all connected to a singular large dock; torches flickered and danced where they were lit like lamp posts along the way, all equally spaced out in a massive line.

"Oh my god, it's a fuckin' ape!"

Slate panicked once more. He had never seen this many humans in one place- at least not for a long time. The Colonel was brought to mind and he immediately leapt up onto the unsteady little loading station, unsure of his land legs at this point. Someone screamed, others gasped, eyes latched onto him. Children were pulled to their mothers, fishers abandoned their poles. The ape flinched back as he was approached by a pleading face and two big brown eyes, snarling at her. His adversary reeled back, just as one would from a vicious mongrel, and he could see the fear within her gaze as he galloped past her, rushing for the nearest patch of green. He leapt and propelled himself off a building, launching his body into the backwoods and scrambling along shingles. The shouts slowly grew more and more distant, and eventually he stopped and gripped his pounding heart.

So many human beings in so little time. They were tall and hairless and grotesque. Nothing like his Krissa. Slate caught himself. His Krissa? The title rolled within his head for a moment, washing between his ears for a moment. It stuck, oddly enough. Satisfied, he shot another glance over his shoulder and found his bearings once more. Where was he to go now?

He had to find her.

This hadn't been as easy as Slate had thought it would be. There was a short amount of woods, yes, yet hardly any trace of the young woman's presence. He sat within the trees overlooking the little town square, going unnoticed by the villagers below for the time being. They were deaf, it seemed, to their surroundings. His dark fur blended in with shadow, his long face framed by branches, bulky body motionless in the nook he had nestled himself into. The old fir swayed and creaked beneath him, needles rustling peacefully. To find Krissa should have been something as simple as plucking a cardinal amongst sparrows, but now it had turned into a task that could only be described as trying to find a needle within a haystack.

So, instead of continuing, he was now nothing but a disappointed, frustrated, and highly irritable mess. Human voices were so annoying, like whining gnats swarming around one's head. They squealed in his ears, they flew into his eyes, they landed and gathered upon his thick, coarse charcoal coat.

"You said he was carryin' a bow n' arrow?" A familiar voice caught within his ear canals and his head rose from where it had rested upon his forearms. Nic. It felt as if it had been forever since he had heard his stupid nasally tone. "Were there any other distinct features?"

"It moved too fast for us to all get a good look at it," replied his companion, moving after him through the small groups of people passing by. It was the pudgy man, wearing his coveralls, gloves being thrown around in gesture. "It was huge though."

One of Nic's hands reached up to the back of his neck and he gave it a gentle rub, shaking his head. He seemed exasperated. Was he glad that he had left them behind? Of course he was. Slate was just as glad, but for some reason, this left an uneasy pit to grow and fester in his belly. The male hadn't contacted them like he had promised to, which had evidently left the entire colony asking questions. "Jonas ain't gonna like this," Nic muttered, head shaking.

Eventually the two grew out of sight and Slate was left with a choice. Should he follow after them and see where they were heading? Maybe he could corner the man and get some answers.

Yes, Koba whispered. Good idea. Scare him.

Lifting himself up, the chinobo began to amble along, swinging himself through the trees. Leaves fluttered down to earth, startling those passing by, but he could honestly care less. He just wanted to find Krissa, and if him being spotted was what it took, Slate was completely prepared to expose himself right at that moment. Determination filled him once again. He snuck silently along the treeline, throwing himself above their heads like a bullet, yet going unnoticed. Humans were incompetent. If they hadn't spotted him by now, there was no guarantee they would spot him at any point.

"Listen Hershel, I know you ain't a fan'a these things, but you can't just force a gun in their face and expect 'em to scare like a regular animal," Nic explained to the other man, coming to a stop near the edge of the fence-line. "They think, they feel. They're smart too, sometimes more than we are."

"I know man, but we've got kids here. With one of them on the loose, who's to say there won't be an uproar. They're all already as scared as it is with winter comin'." Hershel edged closer and placed a hand on the tense being beside him. His voice dropped, as if someone would hear. "Look, I know you know these things better than Jonas does. You've seen how quickly things can go south. After the battle at San Francisco, people were scared, but you changed their mind. You can do it again."

Nic placed a hand on his hip and pinched the bridge of his nose. A grumbling sigh escaped him, clearly disgruntled by the man's insistent mannerisms. "Yeah, yeah, I know," he dismissed softly, then shook his dark crown. "I've got somethin' to take care of. Just... don't talk to Jonas about it until I've at least looked for the thing."

"You sure about this?" Hershel asked, apprehensive.

The other man was already waving him off, hooking the toe of his boot into one of the chain-link and pushing himself up over the top. He landed with a grunt in the dead leaves on the other side. "Very," Nic confirmed. "And if they won't listen to me, they'll listen to Krissa. She's got a story to tell, after all."

Hershel offered him another cautious look. It was his turn to sigh this time and he shook his head, turning away with a wave. "Alright buddy, see you later then. Good luck."

"Much appreciated!" Nic called back. The two parted ways and Slate watched with observant hooded eyes, observing how he weaved through the clutter of trees to a path not too far off. Everything was painted sunflower, russet and umber. Slate bore through the chilly wind as it combed its frigid fingers up through his coat. This weather was becoming exhausting. What he wouldn't give for another sticky-hot summer's day near the waterfall, guarding the shamans as they searched for their precious medical plants.

Drawing himself from his moment of though, the raven simian caught himself on the nearest branch and swung himself in a steady rhythm, following after the oblivious man with every intention of finding the woman he worried constantly about. He hadn't seen her for what felt like months... how was she doing, he wondered. Slate paused from where he hung for a moment, watching Nic grow farther and farther away from him before allowing his eyes to drift ahead. Perhaps it would be a while before they reached her. Despite understanding this, he couldn't deny how excruciating this was. She was so far yet so close. Slate felt a pang of something wash up into his chest and continued on at a rather quick pace, trying to catch up with the male. The duo meandered along in silence, the chinobo not even daring to so much as breathe in the human male's direction.

The path lead the two of them to a large meadow filled with skinny birch trees, their pole-like trunks covered in papery bark that could only be compared to the parchment used while cooking meat. Slate held back, knowing fully well that he would surely be spotted- his dark coat was be stark in contrast with the grey stretch above and their lanky white trunks. He would stick out like a sore thumb.

Once Nic was out of sight down after descending a slight slope, he waiting a few extra moments, simply taking in the woodlands. It was funny; there was not a trace of birdsong in this particular area, and yet he could hear some off in the distance. Slate sucked in a breath, sudden realisation hitting him hard. It was because of him, wasn't it? Suddenly uncomfortable, the ape continued on, warily glancing around. Did his presence really make that much of a difference? Maybe it was just the woods themselves... after all, the presence of man was a rarity these days. Once again, he managed to catch up with the survivor, approaching the thinning trees and the steady lapping of water.

Oh, could he take any longer? Along the bank the man traipsed, enjoying the scenery around him. The lake was a magnificent sight, Slate had to admit as he watched the waves across the dark green water. Autumn colours sang in both the water's reflection, as well as painted the shoreline and endless ocean of forest once green. Slate drank in a massive breath of fresh air and then turned his amber set back over toward the human he had been following.

Finally, they rounded the edge of the shoreline and found it: a small little lakeside property with a balcony overlooking the water. It only looked big enough for one person. The windows were cracked open near the back of the property, the sound of dishes clinking and the soft, faint traces of esters filling his nose giving away that she must be cleaning inside. The chinobo itched to fling himself down on the wrap-around porch and pound on the windows to get her attention, but he remained stagnant. What if she didn't want to see him anymore? What if she wanted to stay with the humans? What if she had forgotten him?

That was dumb. Krissa would never forget him, but what if she were different? The ape carefully grappled the tree's trunk and began to pull himself up until he found himself a seat in an old squirrel's nest. The leaves were wet and thick, cushioning his backside as he waited and listened with strained ears. A couple of knocks on the front door caused the clinking in the kitchen to stop, and moments later there was the sound of pressure being released within the home. The egress hissed and Nic's voice caught the air. Slate leaned, trying to listen in on what was being discussed.

"How's Liepa?" he asked.

Who was this Liepa? Silence followed and then Nic chuckled. Pinching his eyes, Slate couldn't quite understand why she wasn't speaking to him. Perplexed, the male edged himself out onto a branch and carefully lowered himself down on top of the rough surface of the home's roof. Slowly the two became visible, facing one another and standing parallel with the cabin's front.

There she was, just as he had remembered her, only divergent. Krissa wore fresh clothes he had never seen before, her hair cut shorter, like it had been when he had met her. Her throat was bandaged, this time in sticky-looking white gauze, yet she looked colourful and lively. Slate felt a breath of relief seep from his lungs as he saw that she was still using sign language.

Then it hit him. She couldn't talk.

"She's young, it's normal for them to rest," Nic reassured, reaching out and tucking some hair behind her ear in an endearing gesture. Slate gritted his teeth, a spark of jealousy igniting in his stomach at the sight.

'I guess,' she signed simply, although Slate could tell that she was having a hard time expressing herself to someone so asinine as Nicolas. Without her voice, she was missing her main means of communication, and the ape highly doubted that anyone understood sign around these parts.

"Have you eaten this morning?" asked the man, expressing concern.

'Yes,' she replied, nodding. Her tongue passed over her bottom lip. She looked thinner than before. Slate could understand Nic's worry, unable to fight his own unease at the sight of her frail frame. Muscular as always, yes, but not as toned as he had remembered.

Nic nodded. "Good. Keep it up." The man then offered a flat smile. Turning himself around, hands on his os coaxe, the survivor looked out over the water. Kris crossed her arms and hugged herself against the breeze, observing the trees. Slate's gaze bore deeper into the back of their heads as they observed in silence, for a moment standing at a comfortable distance apart. It wasn't until Nic turned his crown around that he saw a startling difference in how he had once gazed at her. His eyes were soft and cautious, almost as if he were unsure of how to approach her, yet unafraid of what she might do if he reached over. Eventually, after a moment, he smiled and closed the distance between the two of them, pulling her into a hug and planting a kiss on her forehead.

Krissa embraced him back.

Slate felt his brain short circuit and forced himself to look away, stepping back in order to stand beside the cabin's chimney while balancing himself with a careful hand. He felt the overwhelming urge to hide. Swallowing thick in his throat, he eventually settled back upon his haunches. Their small talk continued for a while until Nic began to mention that he needed to get a move on. Although still feeling a bit queasy from the sight of the two holding each other so dearly, the chinobo watched the male go and listened to the screen door clatter shut, leaving Krissa to return to her usual duties.

Would she really be happy to see him? She seemed so colourless, so inanimate and almost... sickly. With a deep huff, Slate's teeth flashed and he shook his head. No, he mustn't think of that. She would be alright. She would adjust, she just needed time. After a little while of contemplation, Slate dropped himself and hung from the eavestrough, the metal creaking beneath his weight. The window was partially open, the screen allowing in the fresh scent of pine from the woods. Her head was down, focusing on washing the dishes. The room behind her was bathed in tinny light, highlighting the glossy features of a small table and a chair. A bundle of dying flowers sat in a partially-filled vase.

The smell of something sweet filled his nose, although it was mostly blocked out by the substance she was using in the hot sudsy water at her fingers. Slate admittedly found this mesmerising, watching her wash and then set the dishes aside with a swirl of her sponge and a rinse from the tap. With a hesitant finger, he tapped the glass. Her head shot up and it took her a few moments to eventually register who exactly was in front of her. Slate smirked.

Her freckled face instantaneously exploded in pure elated radiance, stunning chartreuse-and-brown eyes latching onto him and drawing the very soul from his body. She was beaming and a soft, choked gasp escaped her lips, immediately abandoning the task at hand and wheeling around, heading for the front porch. Slate dropped to the wooden beams beneath him and hopped up over the railing to the soft earth below. He was around the side of the building in an instant and stood bipedal just as she bolted from the front steps.

Before Slate could really conclude what was happening, the girl had flung herself at him and their bodies collided. He held her tightly, their grips fierce as they tumbled to the ground, rolling once or twice until they were a ball of relief and comfort. Slate took greedy sips of her scent, squeezing a bit too hard and earning a grunt from her in protest. He couldn't help it. She was so warm and so close- closer than he had felt her in a while, and it made his guts tie into a series of hard knots. "Kris," he breathed. After a few moments of lying in the needles and cool earth, they pulled away from one another, limbs untangling themselves. Krissa brushed a few stray curls from where they rested atop her brow with flitting hands, the dimples he had missed so dearly making an appearance as she smiled wide enough to break his heart.

Krissa's hands found his face and he shut his eyes tight, letting out a heavy, trembling huff, a great weight lifting from his shoulders. 'You're okay,' was all he could sign. Slate pushed forward from where he sat upon his short hind legs and he buried his face into her shoulder and neck, pant-chuffing and groaning. Part of him didn't want her to see him like this, but the other half was simply exhausted from holding onto his pride for so long. 'You're okay...'

Eventually the two parted after what felt like a solid ten minutes of simply sitting like that, one of her hands gently stroking his back and pate, as if reassuring him that this was real. Finally, they drew apart, tears very apparent on her face. 'I thought I'd never see you again,' she gestured, a broken hiccup escaping her throat. A pang of guilt and alarm struck him all at once. He reached his hands out and used his thumbs to brush the warm brine away, shaking his head and croaking.

"I did too," he replied, feeling as though he were out of breath. She sniffled and shook her head, leaning forward and allowing their brows to press together.

"..missed... you so bad," she croaked suddenly. It sounded as if she had been struck with laryngitis, the sound crackling and wet in her broken vocal chords.

Slate nodded, knowing all too well. "Everyone... misses you. Salt, Poppy, Lake."

Krissa pulled back. "Cor..neli..us? Maur -ice?"

'All of them,' he signed, confirming. A smile twitched at her lips. Although he didn't want to, his eyes drifted down toward her damaged neck. 'Hurt?'

Her hand slowly came to find his own, stilling it in its tracks. She nodded. 'A lot. It hurts most when I try and talk.'

'Then just sign. Don't strain yourself,' he responded, offering a chiding look. If she were doing to force herself to use her voice, she would have to do it some other time. He couldn't bear to see her in pain. Slate's probing eyes began to really take her in then. 'You cut your hair?' Her smile grew a bit wider and she nodded, nose scrunching up the tiniest bit. The chinobo could feel his own smile slowly creep up onto his lips and reached out, brushing a hand over her raven curls like one would with their dog. 'It looks nice.'

'So do you,' she complimented in turn, squeezing one eye shut beneath his touch. His heart hiccuped and his amber set widened in bewilderment. Had she just complimented him? He wasn't sure how to respond to that. 'Stronger than I remember...' Slowly, her simper melted away, her brows tightening slightly. 'More tired too.'

Sniffing, Slate shrugged his shoulders with a gentle bray, rolling his eyes and glancing away. She could always read him, just like an open book. He hated it sometimes- she wasn't his mother, or his sister. 'I'm fine,' he brushed off. Eventually returning his attention to her, he offered a dull look and she drew away with a soft laugh and a shake of her head. She knew well that he hated to be fussed over.

'Do you want to come in?' the ravenette suddenly asked. Slate grew rigid. Him? Go inside? Inside of a human home? His lips parted in question and he tilted his head, apprehensive and unsure as to whether she were being completely serious. 'Come on, I'm sure it won't hurt... maybe you can meet Liepa.'

Another sceptical glare was sent her way, but it seemed he didn't have a say in things as she grasped hold of his wrist and lead him forward. He staggered up the stairs in tow, trying to keep his balance as the two both stood bipedal. Krissa was soon opening the door, and before he could really understand what he was getting himself into, he was standing in the mouth of her hut. The simian's hand rested upon the string of his bow and he lifted it up over his head. Walls stained with deep russet came into view, a small nook set off to the side for shoes and boots. Her coat hung from a crooked hook.

Slate suddenly felt incredibly small in comparison to this cramped little home. He had only ever been inside of a few buildings, those including the metal cages the Colonel had stuck them in up in the mountains. The memory of a cold iron shovel in his mud-drenched arms brought back unwanted shivers. The ape bit them back and looked to Krissa immediately in order to distract himself. She stood in the junction between the hall and the small scullery, her eyes trained upon him. A familiar warmth crept up into his belly.

'Are you hungry?' she asked, tilting her head.

Without a response, he simply followed after her, grunting through closed jaws. He was indifferent, after all. If she were going to fix him human food, maybe he ought to try it at least once... right? Slate allowed his fingers to trail along a large metallic door, the surface cool to the touch. What was this thing called again?

"Fridge," she rasped, startling him out of his thoughts. Lips pursing, he shot her a slant and then returned his inquisitive gaze back to the mystical entrance. A Fridge? Part of him wanted to leave it be, but he knew that there had to be something rewarding inside. Krissa, after all, looked as if she wanted to encourage him. Pulling the door open, he was hit by a cold wall of air and flinched slightly at the harsh light. The aroma of so many strange foods hit his nostrils and his ears perked. Leaning inside, he hooted softly in question, beginning to pull items out and examine them out of curiosity. Slate had explored these stand-up thingamabobbers before, but he had never really ventured as far as running his coriaceous fingers along its face, fascinated to say the least with how incredibly smooth it felt.

Movement to his left caused him to side-step, Krissa's long arms reaching in and plucking a carton of something from behind a suspicious looking jug. She then guided the doors closed with a smile. 'Careful,' she signed, or as best she really could while using one hand. 'Letting out the cold.'

With a gesture, she signalled him to move to the small little table. Awkwardly doing as he was instructed, the chinobo paused by the wooden surface and eyed it suspiciously. An egg was cracked, the delicate sound hitting the air, and then there was the sudden sound of sizzling as the yolk began to cook. It took perhaps a minute or two for the ravenette to prepare his small snack, whilst in the mean time he explored the kitchen with probing amber stones. They finally returned to her willowy frame, studying her clothing, the angles of her shoulders and elbows, as well as the soft curve of her hips and backside.

They were familiar illustrations that he had missed so dearly.

Krissa finally turned to him with a slightly runny egg upon a small porcelain plate and set it down in front of him with a soft clatter. One of the drawers were open with a slight clatter and her hand momentarily disappeared. This peaked his interest even further, his head tilting up in order to try and catch a glimpse of what she was reaching for. There was the flash of silverware and suddenly he was handed a fork. He had vaguely come into contact with them before. Retrieving the utensil from the young woman, he watched as she tucked her hands beneath her chin and rested her pate on top, peering at him in expectation.

Oh. She expected him to use it.

He was suddenly nervous. Slate glanced down at the egg in front of him and tentatively brought it down upon the golden bubble of protein before him. Calculating momentarily, he began to wonder which angle he should approach this at. His hand continued to hover. The ape finally grunted and figured that he had nothing to lose. He stabbed, popping the egg and then watching it leak across the spotless whites. Slate continued forward then, eating the treat with little finesse. Stab, bite, stab, bite, chew, chew, swallow. Krissa was laughing softly by the end of his feast. His tongue graced out along his lips and he smirked. 'I missed you,' she signed again, for the second time.

Slate set down the utensil. 'I missed you too.'

A moment of comfortable silence. 'Did you...' Krissa began.

Slate's faint smile slowly dropped, mirroring her own expression. She seemed to be struggling with this question. 'Find Pine?' he finished for her.

Her eyes flickered nervously to her hands. 'Yes,' she replied.

'We did... he's gathered other apes, starting to create a band of his own,' Slate explained carefully, watching as her liquid lime-and-umber set flashed. Through layers of worry, he could see the eminent fear of the unknown. Her own safety was still at risk, and she was registering it, and rather quickly at that. He felt his nerves suddenly fray and he felt the need to jump across the table and calm her down. It was the hard, cold, terrifying truth, but she needed to hear it. Besides, he couldn't lie to Krissa. Not after everything they had been through. 'Maurice believes... that we may go to war.'

'All because of me?'

Slate's head lowered and his shoulders rose ever so slightly. He couldn't meet her gaze any longer. 'Not you,' he responded, finally shaking his head. How was he supposed to word this? 'Pine wants to finish Koba's job, live his legacy.'

Her teeth clenched together and she straightened up from where she was leaning against the table. 'I'm coming home with you,' she decided. The ravenette moved toward the front door, forcing Slate to reach over and snatch her hand up in his.

'Too dangerous!' he signed. 'Your best chance of staying safe is being here.'

'It will be just as dangerous here,' Krissa shot right back, the two getting in one another's faces. Her eyes ghosted over his features, the two holding equal amounts of anger toward each other. Hands flattening, they swung in toward one another, her next gesture being a single-handed as her index and middle digit crossed. Finally, her fingers pinched together and pressed from her cheekbone to the corner of her mouth, eyes defiant throughout. One of her digits found his chest, prodding him firmly, earning an indignant growl from him. He didn't wish to complain, it was just startling, the physical contact. 'It's either here or home.'

Her shoulders squared and a croak of breathy words fumbled from her soft lips. "Rather... be with.. you." Again, her finger tapped his pectoral before softening. Her hand came to splay upon his beating heart. Slate enjoyed the sensation of her nails against his scalp and felt his breath hitch, their eye-contact never breaking. "Safer, and I can.. help."

Slate's hand slipped up and grasped the ravenette's wrist, yet he did not remove the extremity she had pressed to him. He held it there, in fact, as he shook his pate once again. 'I know,' he replied with one free mitt. He couldn't quite understand the static charge beginning to bounce between their bodies, but it drew him closer, and it was then that he realised just how small she was in comparison to females of his kind. This creature could only be compared to a bird, fragile and delicate, yet graceful and elegant. The sudden overwhelming urge to fight for and protect this dainty woman became too great and he pulled her a bit closer, her foot brushing his own. 'You are weak right now. Pine would not hesitate.'

"Even if he were to .. kill.. me," she slowly spoke, chords grating together as they thrummed tenderly in her larynx. Her hot breath tickled across his face. "You're twice... as prep...ared. Cornelius... will be there."

His head shook again. 'No, Krissa.'

The ravenette's eyes wandered a moment longer before she sighed and drew away. Was she insane? Insisting on coming with him, to the most dangerous part of the Oasis, it was suicide! Slate couldn't wrap his head around the fact that she could possibly have a death-wish, especially after he had fought so hard to keep her alive. How ungrateful, was all he could think. After he had had her blood on his hands, he never wanted to see another drop spilled again- he would sacrifice himself first if it meant she was able to continue to walk this earth.

It wasn't until he spotted movement within the corner of the room that he suddenly was drawn from his thoughts. A small apeish figure froze in the middle of the hardwood, eyes large emerald pools of innocence and fear. Her face and hands were pale as a sheet against her stark coat. Slate was taken aback, subconsciously reeling away and bearing his teeth. With a nervous giggle, the white-tail turned and lunged for Krissa, who caught her with open arms as she nestled up against her damaged throat.

'How today? Who stranger?' the apeling signed vigorously, jabbing a rude finger in his direction. Slate looked to Krissa in complete and utter bewilderment.

"Liepa..." the ravenette responded. "This... is Slate. He's my ...best ..friend."

'Not bad ape?'

'No, bad ape isn't around.'

Like a cautious animal would with anything new, he paced a half-step to the side and eyed the young one curiously. "Where did you.. find her?" Slate asked.

"All on her own. In the... woo..ds." Sauntering over, she leaned over so that the apeling could reach out and touch Slate. However, the chinobo had other plans, and offered a grunt of warning, ducking away from her tiny hands. This earned a laugh from Krissa, which oddly stirred something in his chest. It was an old ache he had missed dearly, and he now understood what it meant. Her laughter, no matter how hoarse or broken, could ignite bonfires in his belly.

No matter how tough or mean he could be, he was putty in her hands, and it quite honestly scared him.

The two wasted the rest of the evening talking about Poppy and how she was fairing as a newly-apprenticed shaman. Krissa showed him her drawings and he was surprised, remembering the young boy he had briefly interacted, way back when his father had still been alive. Alex was his name, was it not? Her drawings were far different, however, startlingly detailed. He could imagine how long they had taken her, suspecting it had been many hours on the front veranda, watching the day drift by, graphite coating her fingers and smudged upon her cheeks.

Liepa had somehow managed to sneak up behind him and the two had briefly wrestled- although, of course under Krissa's careful gaze. Her behaviour reminded him much of a worried mother, and for a moment, as he looked up at her from beneath the white-tail's mischievous grasp on his shoulders and crown, he couldn't help but wonder how she would fair as a mother.

Slowly daylight faded, changing from honey gold to silver and giving way to the night. At some point, all three fell asleep against the lip of Krissa's old worn-out sofa, eventually becoming a call of rising and falling flanks upon the shaggy carpet.

Slate had lost track of time. The exact moment he realised this, he rose and made for the door...

Although not before pressing his lips to the top of her wild curls, breathing her scent in one final time. The proclamation that had been buried down deep inside of himself finally bubbled up his throat, falling from his maw without restraint. "I love you, Kris," he murmured gently, voice barely a breath above a whisper, and she stirred in her sleep at this, sighing in pure content.

Alas, she could not hear him. It only gave him further confidence. Slate said it again, this time with resolve. "I love you."

Her features were peaceful and placid, as if for a moment she had gone untouched by this horribly corrupt reality she struggled through day-in day-out; as if she hadn't just about lost her life only five or so weeks ago.

Again, he said it, reciting those three beautiful yet horribly ugly words in sign this time. 'I love you.'

This was how it would feel, from now on- as if it would be his last farewell to her, as if it would be the final time he would see her lungs inflate, chest rising, or watch those incredible oculars gently move beneath her bronze lids. Any moment could be their final together. One of his stray hands hesitantly brushed her hair away, brows furrowed as if this were his first time seeing her as human. Slate's finger-pad faintly feathered across one of her cheekbones and then came to hover there, frozen. His large head shook and he exhaled with a great hiss of hot air, disturbing the ringlets haloing her head.

'It's always been you.'

Despite how Slate wished to stay there for as long as Caesar would allow him, the chinobo eventually tore himself away and knuckled around the chesterfield, leaving the ravenette in a pool of blankets with Liepa at her side. He then retrieved his bow, pausing so he could take one last sweep of the house's interior, before he finally pushed the door open as quietly he could, slipping out into the night.

It had been the hardest thing, saying goodbye for a second time, even if it were by choice.